


Echoes Swell and Subside

by Xyriath



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Flashbacks, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sheith Big Bang 2017, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: Coming out on the other side of something like what Shiro has gone through is only half the battle.  He isn’t unscathed, and he knows it.  But before he can heal, he needs to learn how deep the wounds go.Keith is there, always, a constant in Shiro’s life through even the worst times.  And maybe he’s putting himself in danger by refusing to leave.  But he’s Shiro’s anchor, and if Shiro is going to get through this with his sanity intact, he can’t let him go.





	Echoes Swell and Subside

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, my fic for the 2017 Sheith Big Bang! I had the absolute delight of working with [ghostiekins](http://ghostiekins.tumblr.com/) for my art, and she did [these accompaniments. Check them out and give them a reblog!!!](http://ghostiekins.tumblr.com/post/164348652628/keith-squeezed-him-leaning-in-and-kissing-him-on)
> 
> Also a thank-you as always to my platonic soulmate Admiral for her Keith characterization. <3

In prison, Shiro dreamed.

He dreamed of glimpses of blue sky, soft grass beneath his toes.  The night lit up by uncountable colors, skyscrapers stretching up to a height he would barely have thought possible.  Stretches of dry sand, beautiful in their austerity, red rocks rising to form awesome shapes against the horizon, the wind in his hair and the thrill of adventure in his throat.

He dreamed of a hand, smaller than his own, squeezing what it could of his shoulder, a glimmer of a smile that no one else would ever see.  Dark hair falling into purple eyes, an annoyed huff of breath sending the strands scattering, but only for a moment.  His fingers itching to brush them away, to cup that face.

And now he dreamed again.  Remembering?  His lips meeting another pair, a delighted gasp escaping from one of them—maybe both of them?  Arms, small but strong, latching around Shiro’s waist, pulling him closer.  The silkiness of that black hair, even softer than he had imagined.

A soft chuckle breathed into his ear as he scooped Keith up, holding him tightly, then flopped down onto the bed, earning a much louder, much more satisfying shout of delighted laughter.  Hands fumbling at clothing, skin touching, kisses deepening.  Intimate without being explicitly sexual, enjoying the sensation of each other without desperation or frenzied desire.  Just… relief.  Lying together, limbs tangled, sharing affectionate smiles.

And god, he wanted, wanted things he had always dreamed about but never had.  But he knew, when he woke, it would all dissolve around him, into cold metal walls and a harsh, efficient language.  Into brutal warfare, a desperate fight for survival, a heart that had to be chilled and hardened for any chance at sanity.  A world where every sense had to be on high alert, as someone might decide that you were more trouble than you were worth, where a blade into your back might cripple a mortal enemy, stripping them of a weapon and the power that came with that.  A vigilance that never ended, even in sleep, even as his forehead pressed against a lover’s, breaths mingling with laughing delight.

Next to him, not in a dream, in the world he tied himself to even when the horror of its reality became nearly too much to bear, something moved.  Someone.

His dreams vanished.  As his eyes snapped open, darkness obscuring most of his vision, he swept around quickly for any indication of a weapon: the glint of a knife, the dark form of a gun.  Nothing, but that meant just as much: he had learned too well that death came in countless forms, and that he would need to fight to keep it from him.

With a snarl, he propelled himself up onto his left side, twisting around, levering himself up, shoving down with his right forearm.  As he felt the metal meet flesh— _a throat!_ —he threw his leg over, straddling the form of the assassin—for who else could have gotten into his cell at this hour?  With a growl, he shifted his weight from his forearm to his hand, both flesh and metal gripped around the slender neck.

“Who sent you?” he spat, the adrenaline and alertness coursing through his body despite being asleep seconds before, leaving him hyper-aware of every sensation.  He had few clothes on—why?—but those details didn’t matter.  The cell had grown darker than usual, none of the dim lighting in the ceiling.  Sabotage?  To escape the surveillance?  His assailant choked below him, sounding as if they were trying to gasp, but couldn’t draw in the air.  Dimly, he realized that they couldn’t breathe (a respirating species, then, probably two-legged), could possibly die from this, but he had no idea what other tricks might be hidden in store if he let go.  Better to kill first.  What else could they do to him.

“Answer me!”  It was still possible whatever species it was had some method of communication, and if he didn’t have to release his hold, more the better.

Hands— _hands?  Flesh, nails, not fur, not claws, what?_ —scrambled at his wrists, yanking, but whatever force they exerted was minimally noticeable.  At the fighting, Shiro tightened his grip, eyes wide but still unseeing, every ingrained instinct screaming _dangerdangerdanger—!_

A violent kick from below him, but their positions made it impossible for the killer to get any leverage.  Shiro snarled again, wrenching his hands tighter, gasping for air, trying to focus his eyes in the dark—

The form below him slowly went limp, and as the beginnings of relief began to settle through him, his instincts retreated, breathing settling, vision returning.

He saw the face, and the bottom dropped out of his world.

With a strangled cry of sheer, abject horror, he recoiled, hands yanking away as if the neck had grown molten hot, immediately trembling in horror.  Sweat rolled down his cheeks, his forehead, stinging his eyes, but he simply shook it away.

Keith coughed weakly, but besides that, his limp form didn’t move.

“Oh god, Keith…”  Despite his trembling, despite his immediate shock and disgust that he could do this to _Keith_ , he crept over, the need to ensure Keith’s safety outweighing his shame.  He reached out, hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him softly.

_Pleasebealivepleasebealiveohgoddon’tbe—!_

Keith’s hand lifted to touch Shiro’s, making a feeble effort to push away, but Shiro could feel no force behind it.

Shiro shrank away, bells of horror still ringing in his ears.  “I’ll… I’ll be right back.”  He staggered away to fill up a glass of water.

By the time he returned, Keith had managed to roll over, pressing a knee into the bed, clearly trying to get up.  Shiro nearly rushed over to help, but the memory of Keith’s hand on his wrist, trying to push it away, left him hanging back.  Instead, his fingers fumbled for the screen that controlled the brightness of the lights, and he brought them up to a dim glow.

“Keith, are you all right?”  He couldn’t remember the last time his voice had shaken like this, with sheer terror.  He had always had someone or something to fight against, to defy, something he was trying to protect.  But this time, he had caused it.

Keith made a horrible grunting sound, and Shiro swallowed.

“I… I have water, if you…”

Keith finally managed to push himself into a vaguely sitting position, and he motioned for Shiro to come closer.  Shiro did, slowly, watching intently for any sign of Keith shrinking back.  He didn’t, but the awful gasping noise, like he was trying to cough but couldn’t manage enough air, left Shiro dizzy.

Shiro finally reached him, sitting carefully next to him on the bed, setting the water down on the nightstand.  Keith’s fingers curled around his arm, tugging, leaning on him as he pulled himself up.  Shiro noticed him sway, then placed a hand—his left hand—on Keith’s shoulder, trying to steady him.  It helped, a little, but god, he wouldn’t stop coughing.

He rubbed a gentle hand down Keith’s back until he heard an awful, gagging noise that he knew distressingly well.  Fumbling forward with a gasp, he grabbed the wastebin, pushing it between Keith’s legs, and holding him still while he vomited.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered, knowing that the words would do nothing to help.

Keith finally managed to slow his coughing, then grabbed for the water.  As he lifted it to his lips, however, his hand shook so badly that it slopped over the edge of the glass.  Shiro reached out gently, and when Keith didn’t flinch away, he took the glass as well, steadying it.  Though his own hand shook, if only slightly, he managed to keep it enough in one place for Keith to finish.

Shiro took the glass back, and Keith stared ahead.  He wiped at his eyes, then rubbed at his throat, taking a deep, rattling breath.

“Can… I get you anything else?” Shiro asked, swallowing.

Keith shook his head, still not looking at Shiro.  “What the fuck?”

The words came out faint, hoarse, rough, barely audible, and Shiro shuddered.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t… realize it was you.”  He felt his voice break, mimicking his insides.

“You nearly killed me,” Keith rasped out, sounding only vaguely angry.

“I know.”  The statement, even the tone, so much less furious than it should have been, left Shiro nauseous, nose stinging.  He lifted the knuckles of his metal hand to the corner of his eye, quickly flicking away the threatening moisture there.  No need to make Keith feel worse than he already did.  “Should I go?”

Finally, Keith turned, tilting his head up, watching Shiro, expression unreadable.  “No.  You.  No.”  He choked the words out, each more strained than the last, then, “Paper?”

Shiro slid out of bed, scrambling for a pen and paper, then pressed them into Keith’s hands.  Turning, he ran back to the kitchen, retrieving ice and wrapping it in a towel.  When he returned to his room, Keith traded him the paper for the ice, pressing it to his throat.

Shiro looked down and read.

_You had a flashback.  My dad used to have them.  Just something we’ll have to figure out._

Acceptance.  Just calm, instant acceptance, pinpointing the problem before even Shiro could.  Was Keith perhaps still dizzy from the lack of oxygen?

Shiro nodded, still shaking, then set down the paper and buried his face in his hands, unable to look at Keith any longer.  “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t think…”  When he had invited Keith to stay the night in his room, he had thought only of how nice it would be, to have someone sleeping next to him.  He had never even considered this a possibility, and now that it had happened, he was furious he hadn’t foreseen it.  “I have nightmares, but I’ve never reacted like this.”

A light touch on his side, then Keith was scooting over, hugging him tightly.   _Touching_ him.  After all this, Keith still wanted to touch him.

Shiro let out a sob into his hands, then gasped shakily, turning to wrap his arms around Keith gently, burying his face in his shoulder.

Keith pulled him in, squeezing tightly.  The delicate strength of Keith’s form always surprised Shiro, left him breathless, a lithe power almost feline in its grace.  Feline, and brutal, almost feral, and here it was, next to him, open and vulnerable.

“Not giving you up after all that.”

Keith’s voice was barely a whisper, and Shiro shuddered, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder.

“I also don’t want to die in my sleep.”

Shiro tensed, then clamped down firmly on the dread sinking into him.  Of course.  This needed to happen.  He pulled back, nodding.  “I understand.  I’m sorry.”

But Keith’s arms refused to release him, pulling him back in.  Though Shiro could have easily broken free of the grip, he followed their lead without hesitation.

Keith turned to pick up the paper, then scribbled again one-handedly.  Shiro waited, breathless, for him to finish.

_We need a way around that.  I’m not NOT sleeping with you._

Shiro lifted his head, a startled expression flickering across his face.  “Wait, what?  No, you need to be safe.”

_I will be.  But I’m not going to leave you just because you need help._

Shiro could barely read the messy handwriting in the dark, but when it penetrated his mind, he inhaled.  “We can be together without you putting yourself in danger.”

_I WANT to be with you._

“I know, I know.  But you don’t have to sleep in the same bed as me to be with me.”

_I’ve been without you for a year.  I’ll be damned before I get kicked out of your bed._

Shiro shoved away the vague hope in his chest.  This wasn’t something to be glad about.  Their relationship was new, barely hours old, and the thought of snapping it the way he had nearly snapped Keith’s next left Shiro nauseous.  Keith needed to do the sensible thing, for once; but also, for once, he wasn’t _listening._  Shiro had to make him understand.

“Then what do you want to do?”

_get you help_

“Yes, of course, but until then.  I want you to be alive to be with you once I’ve recovered.

Keith just shrugged, and Shiro closed his eyes.

“What if I do it again?”

_we stock up on ice_

Shiro yanked back in dismay, breaking the grip.  “Keith!”

Though Keith reached after him for a moment, he drew back and began to write again.

_I'm not leaving you. I dreamed about laying in bed with you and cried when I woke up and you weren't there. I'm NOT leaving you._

And here they were again, back to the same argument.  Shiro made a frustrated noise.

“You don’t have to break up with me to stay safe.  Please.  Keith.”  Shiro leveled his eyes at Keith’s, doing his best to impress the sincerity of his words into him.  “I could kill you.”

Keith leaned in again, and this time, Shiro didn’t pull away.  “No,” came the quiet whisper.

With a shudder, bitterly reflecting on his weakness, he buried his face in Keith’s hair.  “I can’t lose you,” he murmured, swallowing, finally allowing his mind to open, to let the memories that all of this had recalled back into his consciousness.  He had to remind himself of the stakes.  “While I was in prison, the thought of you kept me sane.  Kept me going.  I would go to sleep at night, thinking of you.  I survived to come back to you.”

“And you’re back.”  Shiro could hear the pain in every one of Keith’s words.  “I’m not making you be alone again.”

“You won’t be leaving me!”

“Nope.”  Keith tightened his arms, and Shiro groaned.  Damn his stubbornness, his defiance, his complete and utter lack of self-preservation.  And damn Shiro’s own weakness.

“I almost killed you.”

Keith only clung tighter.  “I don’t care,” he hissed, and Shiro could see the bruises beginning to darken in the dim light.  “I _don’t._ ”

Shiro closed his eyes briefly with frustration, then opened them again.  “We need to take precautions, at least.”

“Yeah.”  Keith went for his pen, scribbling the rest.   _Can you get me more ice?_

Shiro nodded, drawing back and taking the soaked rag from around Keith’s neck.  When he returned, fresh ice and a new glass of water in hand, Keith handed him another note and took the ice.  Shiro set the water down and read.

_You've been hurt, and I don't want to hurt you more. I don't want to leave you, I'm not going to run away. If I have to sleep on the other side of the room I will, but I want to be with you. I want to get you the help you need._

Shiro saw the in, and he took it.  “We could get separate beds.  I won’t feel… left, if you just choose to sleep in a separate space than me.”

“Can they be close?” Keith hissed.

“That would work, I think.”  He sighed.  “Use your pen.  Don’t stress your throat.”

Keith frowned, but wrote, _I’m not happy about that._

“I’m not giving up on this, Keith,” he said, voice firm.

_Neither am I!_

“I know.”  Shiro took a deep breath.  “I just wanted to let you know that I’m still committed to making this work, as long as we’re able.”

Keith nodded slowly, then wrote, _I’m sorry._  As Shiro read, Keith coughed again, then wheezed, the noise achingly painful.

Shiro reached a hand out, running it down Keith’s face, and whispered, “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.  We should get you to the healing pods.”

Keith shook his head, took as deep of a breath as he could manage, then set the paper down, leaning into Shiro and whispering, “Too tired.  Sleep?”

Shiro swallowed.  “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Keith croaked.  “Tomorrow.”

Shiro hesitated, then turned to bend over the side of the bed, reaching towards the floor.  When he rose, he held Keith’s bayard, pressing it into Keith’s hand with a serious expression.

Keith tried to push it back, shaking his head.  “No.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

Shiro bit the inside of his cheek.  Better Shiro than Keith.  “I’m not asking you to,” he evaded.  “Just activate it.  I’ll recognize who it is, then stop.”

Keith stayed still for a few moments, then nodded, placing the bayard on his side of the bed.  He sipped at the fresh glass of water, then croaked, “You owe me ice cream.”

“Of course.”  Shiro squeezed Keith’s hand, trying to smile, and Keith immediately threw himself in for cuddles.

Shiro obliged, the best he could while still trying to be careful of the ice pack wrapped around Keith’s neck.  It pressed against his warm skin, uncomfortably cold, but he pushed it out of the periphery of his senses, instead focusing on the way Keith nosed into Shiro’s bare chest, breathing easier with every moment.  When Keith tilted his head back, Shiro leaned in to kiss him gently.

Keith returned the kiss, and for a moment, Shiro lost himself in it, the relief of being able to still do this, that he hadn’t lost Keith forever.  That shattered, however, when Keith hissed in pain, one hand flying up to his neck.

Shiro inhaled sharply, pulling away, eyes widening.  Had he hurt Keith _again?_  “I’m sorry!”

Keith shook his head, winced again, then tucked his head back into Shiro’s shoulder, forehead against his neck.  “You’re fine.  Something pulled.”

Their sides pressed together, and Shiro ran a hand down Keith’s back.  Keith wouldn’t like this next bit.

“We’ll have to hold off on the sex for a little longer,” he said, voice gently teasing, trying to soften the blow.  Though Keith had been all for it the night before, Shiro had asked that they at least wait a day or two, wanting to settle his own thoughts on the matter before jumping into bed with Keith metaphorically as well as literally.

“It’s okay.”  Keith tugged them both down, back onto the pillows, huddling into Shiro’s side.  “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Shiro murmured.

Keith simply snuggled into him, pressing his head into Shiro’s chest.  Despite everything, Shiro could feel his tension draining at the warmth against him.

“I love you.”

The voice was so quiet that Shiro could barely hear it, but it might as well have come from a chorus of angels.  He gasped, then tugged Keith in, just a little tighter.

“I love you, too.”

Though Keith fell quickly back to sleep, Shiro stayed awake, staring up at the dimly-lit ceiling, for a very long time.

—

“What the _fuck?_ ”

Shiro jerked so violently that a spoonful of the beautiful parfait-like breakfast Hunk had made that morning splatted straight into his lap.  He made a show of cleaning it up, focusing intently on the task, but when he looked up, the other three paladins, as well as Allura and Coran, were staring at Keith in horror.

The faint bruising from last night had purpled and blackened in a truly hideous fashion by morning, and Shiro couldn’t bring himself to look at it for more than a few moments.

Keith simply waved his hand, shooting an annoyed look in Lance’s direction before settling into his own seat, snagging another of the parfaits and peering at it, likely wondering how much it would hurt to eat.

Lance, however, refused to be deterred.

“No, seriously!  What happened to your neck?”  He stumbled over, and Hunk and Pidge followed.  Pidge shot a quick look at Shiro, almost calculating, as if judging his own concern, but Shiro quickly glanced away, unable to meet her eyes.

Keith turned to glare at the sudden crowd, winced at the movement, dug into his pocket, and slapped down another piece of paper.  When Shiro looked down, he could see that it had been pre-written.

_We got a little carried away.  If you need more specifics I suggest porn._

Three sets of eyes turned onto Shiro, wide and horrified, and Shiro let out a terrible, terrible noise, the nausea of anxiety settling in his gut.

Keith shoved a spoonful of food into his mouth, clearly expecting this explanation to be satisfactory.  Shiro, however, lowered his utensil, swallowing with a dry mouth.

“He’s joking,” he managed to get out, but even his own ears could hear the desperation in the words.  Pidge and Hunk seem to accept this explanation, if uneasily, but Lance continued to watch Shiro, eyes uncharacteristically cold.

The silence grew, thick and awkward, and with a painful-sounding grunt, Keith swallowed a last mouthful, dropped the spoon in his nearly untouched parfait, and stormed off.  Coran followed, shooting another significant glance in Shiro’s direction.

Shiro only stared down at his food, appetite completely vanished.  He ate, but he barely tasted it in the quiet, feeling rather than seeing the eyes fixed on him.

The call from Coran, fifteen minutes later, asking to see Shiro at the healing pods, didn’t help matters either.

Shiro made his way there, what food he managed to get down like lead in his stomach, doing his best to shake the sensation of pending execution.  With a deep breath, he stepped in through the door.

Coran stood there, a watchful eye on Keith, whose eyes were closed as he healed within the pod.  He didn’t turn as Shiro approached.

“Relationships between Paladins are not uncommon,” Coran said, voice quiet and steady.  “With that sort of camaraderie, you’re bound to see it.  It can even help with your bonds, when it comes to forming Voltron.  It isn’t frowned upon, of course, not as long as you follow a few common-sense rules.  For example, don’t let it affect your priorities in combat.”

“Of course,” Shiro said after a few moments of silence, unsure if he was meant to respond.

“Never allow it to foster favoritism, especially as a leader, since that will only lead to resentment down the road.  And, of course.”  Coran finally turned his head to the side, one eye focused on Shiro, the expression in it cold and bright.  “Never engage in unnecessarily dangerous activity with the other for the ‘fun’ of it.  Or dangerous kink, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Shiro’s mouth moved, but nothing came out besides a croaked, “I…  That’s…”

Coran turned back towards Keith.  “Whatever you did, you cracked his hyoid bone and nearly completely crushed his esophagus.”

In the reflection of the pod, Shiro could see his color draining, going from white to almost gray.  “I’m so sorry,” he managed to get out, voice weak.  “I didn’t mean—I told him to leave, but he wouldn’t.”  He reached his left hand up, running its fingers through his hair nervously, and realized it was shaking.

“I’m glad he didn’t.”  For such a serious subject, Coran’s voice was matter-of-fact.  “You two got lucky.  If he had moved too much in the middle of the night, he would have stopped breathing.”  Coran turned again, this time fully, staring Shiro dead in the eyes.  “This looks like you tried to kill him.”

Shiro tried to take in a breath, to settle himself and respond, but his chest wouldn’t fill, not properly.  “I… I didn’t know it was him.”  His voice had an undercurrent of hoarseness, as if he couldn’t quite get the air he needed out.

“What do you mean?”

“He moved, and I woke up, and I thought he was…”  He shuddered at the memory, unable to keep Coran’s gaze, turning away, the fresh waves of guilt coursing through him.  Died.  Keith could have _died._  Even after he had stopped, he still could have—

“Please.  Tell me.  If I don’t know, I can’t help.”

Help.  The word rang in the back of his mind like a chime of hope, and he licked dry lips.

“I thought I was back there,” he said quietly, clenching his right fist, in case Coran needed clarification on where ‘there’ was.  “That he… that someone had come to kill me.  I grabbed him by the neck and screamed, asked who sent him, thought he was…  I _saw_ it, Coran.  Even after I woke up, I could still… in my head…”

“And you tried to kill him.”  Coran sighed, and Shiro hitched a shoulder the tiniest of bits before lowering it again, waiting for the lecture.  He could take whatever Coran had to dish out, and more besides.  He deserved it all.

“That is a good deal better than thinking you a genuinely harmful sexual sadist.  We can handle flashbacks and nightmares.”

To Shiro’s absolute astonishment, Coran had relaxed.

“Just like that?”

“It won’t be a complete cakewalk, but we’ve fought wars for centuries, when it couldn’t be avoided.  We had our fair share of mental scars from that.  We had to learn how to treat trauma-induced atypical behavior.”

Shiro nodded, feeling his shaking beginning to ease.  “We… we call it Post-Traumatic Stress, I think.”  He swallowed.  Until Coran had pointed it out, it hadn’t even occurred to him that this might be PTSD, or headed in that direction.  He knew plenty about it, of course, just by virtue of his time in the military, but had never thought that he might suffer from it.

But then, did anyone?

“If this happens again, bring him down to get medical treatment immediately.”  Coran’s voice had gone softer, more compassionate, though still serious.  “I can’t stress enough that he very easily could have died.”

Shiro nodded again, trying to take deep breaths as unshed tears stung at the back of his nose.  Keith.  Dead.  Because of _him._  The thought, the very _sobering_ thought that this could have become a reality left his thoughts racing, refusing to settle on anything beyond _Christ, Shirogane, you almost killed him._

Coran reached out towards Shiro’s shoulder, and when he didn’t flinch away, patted it gently.  “We’ll get all this treated, Shiro.  Don’t worry yourself.”

“I’m worrying myself,” Shiro managed, voice dry.

Coran laughed softly.  “He’ll be out of the pod in an hour or so.  Please, make sure he gets something to eat, won’t you?  He’ll be able to swallow now.”

“Of course.”  Shiro’s eyes slid away from Coran to watch the pod.

“Then I’ll leave you to it.  I’ll update his records to show the cause of the injury as accidental, and tell everyone upstairs that it was, as well.”

Shiro finally managed to tear his eyes from Keith and glance at Coran.  “What are you going to tell them, specifically?”

“I’ll make something up, if you’d rather.”  He smiled faintly.  “Secret mission, maybe?  Lance will be too offended he was left out to question it.”

Though Shiro caught the humor in the words, he couldn’t bring himself to smile.  “Thank you.”

As Coran walked away, Shiro turned back to Keith, eyes closed, skin tinted blue with the glass of the pod.

And he waited.

—

A hiss, and the pod opened, releasing a slightly wobbly Keith, but the bruise had vanished.  Shiro was over in an instant, doing something that a less charitable observer might have called ‘hovering.’

“Are you feeling better?”

Keith tilted his head, swallowed experimentally, then nodded.  “Yeah.  I can move my neck now.  And hey, I can talk again.”  He tilted his head back, cracking his neck, and Shiro had to suppress a flinch.  “What was wrong?”

Now it was Shiro’s turn to swallow.  But Keith deserved to know.  “You… _I_ broke a bone.”

Keith’s hand immediately moved up to touch the back of his neck.  “Like a vertebrate?”  He frowned, now rolling his head on his neck experimentally.  “Didn’t feel like it.”

Shiro gestured towards Keith’s throat, then hesitated and pulled back, tapping his own spot where the underside of his chin met his neck instead of Keith’s.  “Hyoid bone.”

“Oh.”  Keith glanced at Shiro’s hand, then brushed his hand down his own neck.  “That explains a lot.”  His eyes slowly slid up to Shiro, hand lowering, expression shifting to one of anxiety.  “Are you mad at me for lying to the others?”

Shiro could only shake his head, wanting to find the words to explain, to reassure, but instead, he stood there mutely, Coran’s words still seeming to hover in the air between them.

“What’s the matter then?”  Keith reached out, but at the motion, Shiro flinched away.  Keith immediately stilled.  “Shiro… did Coran say something to you?”

Shiro’s eyes lifted, settling on Keith’s, on the concerned expression there, so worried for Shiro and not nearly enough for himself.  Not nearly as aware of what Shiro had almost done to him.  He opened his mouth, scrambling for words to express what had happened in a calm, rational sense, without leaving Keith as frantic as Shiro was.  Like a leader should.  But his mouth had other plans.

“You could have _died!_ ” he finally yelped.  “You would have, if you hadn’t—!”  He caught himself, breathing heavily, but it wasn’t _enough._  “I almost… I crushed…”  He took another step back, eyes fixed on Keith, on his throat, so vulnerable, and remembered his hands around it.  The way it gave underneath him, and so very, _very_ incredibly aware of the fact that he had only to reach out to do it again.

He jerked at the immediate realization of what had just flashed through his mind.  That he had considered it, saw it in intimate detail, could _still_ picture stepping forward and reaching out and squeezing.  Snapping.  The image flooded over him like cold water.  Had last night even been an accident?  Had he _wanted_ to kill Keith?  Had those been his subconscious intentions?  Did he feel the same way towards the others?  He could fight flashbacks, but could he fight himself?  His own wants, if the Galra had done this to him?

Maybe they hadn’t.  Maybe they had only awoken what had always struggled for freedom within him, let loose his true nature by wearing down his inhibitions.  The thought constricted the hand around his chest even tighter, and he gasped for breath, fighting it.  “Keith, you _can’t—!_ ”

Keith stepped forward.  With the frightened look in Keith’s eyes, Shiro could only berate himself further.  He couldn’t let Keith see him this way, couldn’t let this shatter the illusion that Shiro could be strong for them all.  Keith had never seen Shiro anything like this.  Shiro had made sure of it.

“Hey, hey.”  Keith grabbed for Shiro’s hands.  Shiro let him grab the left, but his other scrambled for something firm for support.  “It’s okay, Shiro.  I’m here.  Just… keep breathing.  Finish a thought.”

The words fell away in Shiro’s ears, and he gasped, then gasped again, the pressure in his chest tightening to the point of pain.  He choked, hand flying up to it, pressing tightly.  He couldn’t—what was this?  Another flashback?  But Keith was still right in front of him—was he sick?  Or, perhaps, another Galra weapon, left dormant inside him, but now active now that they knew he could kill?

He cried out, an ugly, strangled noise, yanking his hands away from Keith before he could hurt him again, knock him to the floor, thrust the Galra arm straight through his chest, leaving him with a stunned, betrayed expression and blood trickling from the corners of his mouth as he slumped to the ground.

_A monster like you._

Shiro tried to gasp in breaths, but though his body took in the air, it didn’t seem to fill his chest, and he staggered back, looking around wildly.  What he was looking for, he had no idea, but he had to— _he had to—!_

A pair of hands on his shoulders, pushing him downward.  He tried to resist, but he realized his legs were shaking right before they crumpled underneath him.

Keith’s face filled his vision, large, dark blue eyes wide with concern.  “Hey, Shiro, you’re hyperventilating.  Try and follow me for breathing, okay?”  He took a deep breath, then let it out, going slowly.

Shiro tried, he did, but all he managed was a choke, a gasp, and another frantic inhale before clapping his hands over his mouth, making a terrified, strangled noise.

_Am I dying?_

_You deserve to._

_Triumph or—_

Gentle hands curled around his wrists, tugging them away from Shiro’s mouth, and his eyes flicked up to see Keith’s again, gentle and earnest.

“Shiro, if you have to cry, then cry.  I’m right here.  We’re alone.”

 _That’s not why—_ he tried to say, but his mouth wouldn’t work, just choked, then sobbed, and he could feel the tears spill over, rolling in streams down his cheeks.  But the usual catharsis of tears didn’t come.

“Just try and breathe, Shiro.  I’m right here.”

 _I’m trying!_ he wanted to scream, but he could only shudder violently, gasping for air, and it wasn’t _enough_ and god, he couldn’t even do this little thing that Keith was asking, why why why _why._  Trapped, again, but this time in his own mind.

Infinitely worse than with the Galra.  Keith was right in front of him, yet had never been further away.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” came the soft question, and though he still couldn’t manage to form words, he gargled and recoiled back, shaking his head frantically.  God, for Keith to know what he had seen, what he had thought—

“Okay, okay.”  Keith’s hands slid over Shiro’s shoulders, pulling him in, arms steady around his shaking form.  “Not talking about it.  So…”  Shiro could hear the hesitation in his voice, was just about to pull away, get to one of the pods, but Keith finally continued.

“I started that book you told me to read.  The Douglas Adams one?  You didn’t tell me it was British humor.”

The words had absolutely nothing to do with their current situation, and that was what jerked Shiro’s attention towards them, away from the sucking whirlpool of his thoughts.

His head jerked up, and he tried to focus his eyes on Keith, even as his breaths continued to come in shallow gasps.  “Hi-hitchhiker’s Gg-guide?” he managed, two whole words where before he could manage none.

Keith’s eyes widened slightly, and Shiro could see his mind processing in strange, hyper-detailed, almost slow motion.  Keith nodded.  “Yeah, yeah, that one.  The towels.  I remember thinking, oh, so this is where his stupid off-the-wall towel jokes are coming from.”  A memory penetrated the fog of panic, and Shiro managed to let out the tiniest of gasping laughs.  “I might have picked up on it earlier if you didn’t only read books from last century.”

Shiro shook his head vigorously, but even as he let out an awful choking noise, he recognized it as a laugh.  He couldn’t manage what he _wanted_ to say—‘I don’t _only_ read books from last century!’—but he could argue it with Keith later, couldn’t he?

“But you’re kind of a classic guy, so it makes sense.”  Keith squeezed Shiro’s knee, and Shiro let out a grunt that he hoped sounded at least a little mollified.  “I want to read more of your favorites.  We can watch movies here, right?  I’ve got my laptop; I pirated a bunch before we left.”

Shiro laughed again between gasps, more identifiable this time as such, awful as it sounded.  Had Keith confessed to this only because he knew Shiro couldn’t scold him for it?  Such a brat, but the thought flitted through him with immense affection.  The tears flowed harder, but this time, they did bring some relief.

Keith tugged him down to hug him, then continued.  “Hey, we could even have a marathon.  Of that Captain Spock guy?  And his friend, the Ensign Solo, or something.”

Shiro hiccupped, making as much of an indignant noise as he could manage, but it escaped beside a laugh.  “C-captain Kirk.”

“Right.  Right, yeah, duh.”  He snorted, and Shiro did his best to headbutt him, though a kitten would have been able to do it with more strength.  “I’ve got this older game, too, I think you’ll like.  I found it when I was looking through stuff about space.  It doesn’t really have a plot, and it’s not too complicated, but it’s nice to relax with.  You can travel all over space and find planets and creatures.  Just exploring.  The sort of thing you wanted to do, right?”

Shiro turned to look up at him, smiling.  Though his lips trembled, they held, even as he hiccupped again, softly.

“It’s fun.  I’ve been thinking about asking if Pidge can make it work on Altean tech.”

Shiro made a questioning noise, wondering why that would be necessary, but at Keith’s blank stare, he simply shrugged and nodded.

Keith squeezed him, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.  “Can you say my name?”

That, Shiro could do.  He inhaled shakily.  “Keith.”

Fingers ran through Shiro’s hair, then a hand ran down his back.

“Yeah,” Keith breathed.  “I’m here.”

He pressed into the warmth of Keith’s chest, half-closing his eyes, finally allowing himself to loosely wrap his arms around Keith’s waist.

“Hey, I started on some of those simulators.  With the languages?  I know we don’t need them that much, not with the translators, but I figured that learning the alphabets and stuff would be useful.  They… they even have Galra.”

The word sent a jolt of panic through Shiro for a moment, but he managed to wrestle it under control.  Not all Galra were bad.  He knew that.  He had always believed it.  He clung to the thought, to the conviction, and it grounded him.

This time, he managed the deep breath.

“I’m glad,” he finally said, voice quiet.  “You deserve that chance.”

Keith was quiet for several moments, running a hand down the fuzz at the back of Shiro’s head.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured, and the reverence in his voice twisted Shiro’s chest.  He didn’t have to say anything more; Shiro knew that Keith still couldn’t quite believe that Shiro had forgiven him for being Galra.  Shiro still didn’t know how to make it clearer that there was nothing to forgive.

Not when Shiro had actually _done_ the unforgivable.

He slowly lifted his left hand, curling it in a gentle fist in the fabric of Keith’s jacket.

“Not as much as you,” he managed, voice hoarse.

Keith stayed quiet, but Shiro could hear the disbelief between them regardless.

“Can… can we maybe move?”  Shiro cleared his throat.  “So we’re not on the floor.”  He tried for a chuckle, but it came out as weak and pathetic.  “Don’t wanna make you any sorer.”

“ _I_ want you to.”

At the slight undertone of Keith’s voice, Shiro pulled back, staring at the matching smirk on Keith’s face.  The meaning sank in, he felt himself flush.

“Not now,” Keith continued, taking Shiro’s hands as he stood, tugging at them so he followed.  “I know you’re not ready yet.  But when you are.”

The slight smirk deepened, turning cocky for a moment.  Despite how flustered the image left him, Shiro could appreciate the sight of Keith in his element, a sharp, almost dangerous presence that promised nothing but a good time.

And then their eyes lingered on each other, softening with the realization that this was much more between them than a transient good time.  A first for both of them, for different reasons, and Shiro knew the thought scared both of them.

But it would be worth it.

—

“Yeah, I think Iverson kind of lost his shit when you vanished.  He was a massive dick, and even more to Pidge.”

Shiro tilted his head back on Keith’s lap, cracking his eyelid, raising his eyebrow at the scowl on Keith’s face.  Keith blinked down at Shiro, flushed, and looked away.

“I guess he might’ve been worried.  In his own way.”

Knowing Iverson, “his own way” likely meant something intense and unpleasant.  While Shiro couldn’t excuse him for his treatment of Pidge and Keith, he could only imagine how terrifying it must have been to have found whatever footage had been left behind, or having nothing at all.  He’d have words with Iverson when he got back.

If he got back.

Shiro closed his eyes and turned, pressing his face into Keith’s stomach, his own stomach plummeting and freezing over at the same time.

Keith tensed, and his arms came around to tug Shiro’s head closer.  “I… I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean…”

“No.”  Shiro’s voice was muffled, so he pulled his mouth back slightly.  “No, you’re fine.  I… I just miss home.”

The word dropped between them, and Shiro immediately regretted it.  “Home” was sneaking out of the Garrison at midnight to watch a meteor shower in the desert.  “Home” was video calls with his father as Keith made faces in the background, earning laughs from Shiro’s dad and tickle attempts from Shiro.  “Home” was study dates that ran so late he and Keith ended up crashing together in Shiro’s bed, sprawled across each other.

But the Garrison was gone for both of them.  Shiro’s father had died soon after his disappearance.  And while seeing an asteroid belt up close still left him with awe, it couldn’t replace the warmth of the desert sand under their blanket as they lay on their backs, marveling at the sight, Keith’s warmth beside him.

At least he still had that.

Fingers ran through the tuft of hair at Shiro’s forehead, tugging him back to the present.  Shiro glanced up to meet Keith’s eyes, dark purple and concerned.  He tried to smile.

Keith didn’t return it.

“Do you think it might be a good idea to try that thing Coran told you about?  You look kind of like… you’re lost in your own head.  And he told me to watch out for that.”  Keith glanced away.  “And I think I know it pretty well by now.”

Shiro tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; of course Keith had noticed.  No matter how everyone might underestimate him, he was still one of the sharpest people Shiro knew, and even if Keith might not always quite know what to do with information he gleaned, that didn’t mean he hadn’t seen it.

“Sure,” he managed, trying to keep his tone light.  “Good to practice anyway, right?”

The look Keith shot him told Shiro that he was having none of it.

Coran’s suggestions flitted through his mind, everything he had researched and showed Shiro, and first one seemed the best option, then another, or perhaps this one, and they all began to crowd and overwhelm and—

“Hey, Shiro?”  The voice, slightly raspy and a little tentative, broke through the swirling mess of uncertainty.  “Remember that one soup you made back at the Garrison, when I was all stuffed up from allergies?  With the coconut and curry and carrots?”

The vivid orange color immediately settled in his mind, an anchor of sorts, pressing the rest of the thoughts out.  “I do.  I miss that recipe.”

“You’ve got it memorized, right?  Tell me how you’d make it.  Step by step.”

“Oh,” he said, voice quiet, almost distant, as he strained to remember the words on the oil-stained piece of paper he kept in his recipes folder, there more for comfort and familiarity rather than necessity.

“Well, I’d have you peel and chop the carrots.  About eight of them, right?  You always were good at cutting up vegetables.”  He felt the fondness sneaking into his voice.  “And I’d do the onions.  You laughed at me when I wore swimming goggles to chop them.  It worked, though.”

“But you did look pretty ridiculous.”

Shiro let out a soft laugh, but he kept himself focused.

“And then I’d heat them all up, with seasoning and the oil, until they were ready.  And then the curry…”

The familiar motions began to take shape in his head, and he could almost see the two of them in Shiro’s tiny dorm kitchen, grinning over at each other as pots and pans steamed and smelled, the fragrances melding into something warm and comforting that Shiro could almost taste.

With Keith’s fingers carding through his hair, he could feel the ugly knot inside him loosen, just a tiny bit.

—

The cool earth crumbled between his fingers, a comforting sensation against flesh and metal alike, as he scooped a small hole into the dirt.  With a delicacy that he never would have thought his prosthetic capable of when they had first fitted it onto him, he plucked the tiny seedling from its small container and pressed it into the hole, gently crowding the dirt around it, ensuring that it had enough pressure to stay upright.

The orangish tint to the green leaves, brighter on the bottom, left the neat, military-straight rows of plants with a fascinating aesthetic flair, and when he rose from his kneeling position, the joints cracking as he did so, the pins beginning to buzz in his feet, he took a step back and admired his handiwork.

The abeath plants, all transferred from their planters into one of the castle’s many gardens, painted his vision with a riot of color.  The green of growing, yes, but the orange left it with an alien flair, one that both delighted him and left him with a swell of pride.  Coran had told him that of the many Altean citrus varieties, the abeath were some of the most difficult to grow from seeds, and that he and Allura had refrained from doing any planting without the time to dedicate to the activity.  After all, while the Ccastle could do many things, others were just better done by hand.

But Allura’s beaming, trusting grin as she had pressed the seed pods into his hands had left him absolutely determined to get this right.

Footsteps sounded from behind him, and he nearly grabbed the shovel behind him, imagined very vividly in his mind the sensation of gripping and whirling and throwing straight into the skull of whoever had come to attack.

But he reached over to one of the shelves, to where the spare soil sat, silvery in color but familiar sensation, and ran his fingers through it.  Cool, crumbly, but with damp clumps.  A smell that rung true to memory, but with an odd, almost spicy scent to it that put him in mind of cardamom or nutmeg.  Not home, but… but close enough.

With a deep breath, he turned to see Allura, her expression more relaxed than he had seen it yet.

“It smells _wonderful_ ,” she breathed, lifting her nose into the air and sniffing, hands clasped in front of her as her eyes closed.  “Like home.  You’ve done so well, Shiro.  I’m so glad to see that Coran made a wonderful choice with entrusting the gardening to you.”

And it hadn’t been seen as the most intuitive decision, either.  After all, they had a universe to save; who had time for hobbies?  But they had learned that wars weren’t all fighting, nor even mostly fighting. Most of it, in fact, was the hardest part: waiting.

Waiting, and healing.

“I’ll say.  It’s fascinating, really, how your plant life has evolved to not need sunlight.  You said it was some sort of infrasonic wave?”  Pidge peered around, apparently having appeared from the aether.  Or with Allura, but Shiro had missed her behind the tall rows of plants.  “You’ve done great, Shiro.  I can’t wait to taste real food again.  And I’ll bet Hunk can’t wait to cook with it.”

Shiro could feel the muscles in his shoulders unknotting, and he glanced up at the clock in the room.  Had it really been that long?  Doing the calculations in his head, he came to about three hours.

The thought that he had managed that long without losing his focus, without spiraling, left him with an almost giddy sense of relief.

He hadn’t been able to do something like that in a very long time.

“…think we’ll actually be starting from the beginning.  Would you like to join us?”

Shiro dragged his attention back to the present to watch Pidge beaming up at Allura, who looked slightly startled.

“Well… I suppose the translators should solve the language problem…”

“Yeah!  Besides, it’s such a culturally important work, you’ve _got_ to see it.  It’s—what, a hundred, two hundred years old by now?  Decafeebs.  But it was created to represent a time period that’s not too dissimilar to ours right now.  Talk about optimistic.  We’re not even a quarter of the way to that sort of utopia—but it’s nice, you know?  To see what people have been dreaming of.  And then there’s the entire bit about how it actually shaped the development of our technology, something a lot of people don’t realize.  Did you know that automatic door technology actually _didn’t exist_ before…”

Shiro shared a grin with Allura over Pidge’s head.  Though she clearly had absolutely no idea what Pidge was talking about, she seemed to be charmed by the chatter.  Pidge eventually trailed off and asked Allura to go set up the Altean projection technology.  Though this raised some eyebrows—the day Pidge had discovered how to get it working had been a miraculous one indeed—Allura could take a hint, and she slipped away.

Before Shiro and Pidge stepped in through the doorway, she paused.  Shiro, sensing her uncertainty, followed suit, doing his best to thrust down his anxiety.

“Hey, Shiro?” she finally said, voice quiet as she stared straight ahead.  “I just… wanted to let you know that we’re here for you.”

The silence stretched between them, and she eventually turned to meet his eyes.  He held them for a moment, then slid his gaze away.

“I know there’s a lot that you haven’t told us.  That you’ve…”  She sighed.  “That I know Keith has probably wanted to keep a secret, too.  And I won’t pry.  But I know you probably didn’t think all of us would be convinced.”

No, but he had hoped.  He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.  All for the better; he wasn’t sure that the worming sensation of guilt in his stomach would do him much good if it came up, anyway.

“But—I’m not here to call you out or anything.  I know Lance and Hunk, they probably think most everything’s fine, but if you wanted to talk to them, or me, or any of us, we’d be here for you.”

Shiro finally managed to clear his throat.

“Thank you,” was all that he said, trying to clamp down on the shaking tone in his voice.

A slight touch against his arm, and he jumped, whipping his head back towards her, eyes wide.  She drew back, but, to his immense relief, he realized that it wasn’t out of fear of what he might do to her.  It was only concern on her face, that she had hurt or upset him.  He could reach out and snap her neck without a second thought—

He slammed down on the thought before it could get any further, so hard that his teeth snapped together.  He took a few moments, setting aside reality, letting it ease back through him, but on his own terms.  As it did, he impressed on himself that yes, he could, but he would never.  And Pidge, eyes compassionate behind her large glasses, believed that too.

The ugly image twisted in his chest for a moment, then, powerless, slid away, evanescing into nothingness.

He took a deep breath.

“You still with us, big guy?” came the gentle inquiry.

He focused his eyes again, meeting hers, and this time, the guilt weighed far less heavily between them.

He managed a crooked smile.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I’m back.  And thank you.”  He tilted his head, still watching her.  “It means a lot.  That you guys trust me.”

“Fearless leader and all, right?”  This time, a thread of wryness ran through her voice, and she aimed a tiny punch at his elbow, then winced and shook her hand as she realized it was his right arm.

Rolling her eyes at his snickers, she pushed open the door and stepped through.

The familiar, dated, comforting notes of the Star Trek theme washed over him, and his crooked smile turned into a full grin.

The paladins, Allura , and even Coran, had sprawled across the collection of cushions and couches.  Lance, legs in a position that had suggested they had been stretched over Hunk’s lap a few moments ago, had twisted, pushing himself up on his elbow, gaping over the arm of the couch in horror.  Keith watched back, eyebrow raised, looking unimpressed.

“Ensign _Solo?_  Where the hell did you grow up, man?  Under a _rock?!_ ”

Keith shrugged and rolled his eyes.  “Look, just because you’re a nerd—”

“Yeah, and so is your _boyfriend._  How did you get away with not knowing this stuff for years?”  Lance turned, expression supplicating as he saw Shiro walking in through the door.  “I knew he needed a leash; I didn’t know that it was _this_ bad.”

Shiro let out a laugh, but before he could respond, Keith broke in.

"After he learned what I can do with my mouth, he'll let me get away with anything."

Shiro could feel almost the entire room choke, himself included.  But where his—and Lance’s—was in a combination of mortification of horror, he had the feeling that no few others were a very concentrated effort to avoid laughing at them.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Shiro said loudly, a little unreasonably annoyed at the fact that the entire room now thought he and Keith were having sex that they weren’t—and really, the annoyance was more in the “weren’t” than in the incorrect knowledge—“At this point, if you’re gullible enough to fall for anything Keith says, you kind of deserve that.”

Lance’s eyebrows shot up, and his head whipped back towards Keith, who smirked.  With an annoyed huff, Lance flopped back onto the pillow on the side of the couch, slumping further.  Hunk took the opportunity to tickle one of his bare feet, leaving him squawking in alarm with an impressive flail, and Shiro found himself laughing as he made his way over to Keith.

“I hear we’re starting from the beginning?” he murmured, allowing Keith to pull him down into the pile of cushions.  Though he slid over at Keith’s request, he allowed himself to be tugged into place, eventually leaning back into Keith’s chest, arms wrapped around him, Keith’s chin on Shiro’s head as he held him.

“Pidge insisted, since we have a newcomer to the wonders of Star Trek.  Lance wanted to start with Deep Space 9, but he got overruled.”

“Well, they all have their merits, but I think I’m going to enjoy watching Allura’s reaction to the alien dog.”

Shiro heard a snort from behind him.  “If any planet ever thinks we’re a threat, all we need to do is show them that once we put a unicorn suit on a dog and pretended it was an alien.”

They settled into silence, enjoying the campiness of the projections in front of them, the large size only serving to highlight the old effects, leaving him grinning even harder as wave after wave of nostalgia washed over him.

“Is that some sort of _string?_ ” Shiro heard Allura hiss to Pidge, bafflement clear in her voice.  “They filmed… this flying thing with string?  Did they not even have the technology to hide it?”

Shiro reached out with his foot to nudge Pidge before she could start on the history of film effects and CGI.

“I’ll explain later,” she hissed back.

Shiro could have quoted the episodes that they watched, and as they did so, his attention began to drift away from the show itself.  But this time, instead of into nightmares or dark thoughts or a spiral of uncertainty, he stayed in the room.

He stayed, surrounded by friends and family, held by the person he loved, basking in memories that, though a little bittersweet, wrapped him in fondness.

—

And Keith’s arms wrapped around him as well, when they returned to the room.

Their mouths met in sweet kisses, as natural to them as if they had been practicing for all the time they should have had together, those late nights at the Garrison, sleep-drunk and laughing against each other.  Hands laced under starry desert nights.  But now, now they fully intended to treat it as if they had all the time in the world.

Shiro reveled in the sensation of Keith’s skin under his.  He had never considered himself especially religious, had never understood the fervor of worship, of adoration.  But having someone so warm, so alive against you; a presence normally so feral tame underneath your hands…

The headiness, the joy of it, was as close to worship as Shiro had ever experienced.

Hands on hips; whoever’s came first, Shiro couldn’t say.  Nor could he tell which of them initiated placing fingers on ribs, slid shirts over shoulders, waistbands down legs.  All Shiro could say is that he needed this, needed it like air, like the sun, like water.

When he hesitated, Keith took the gentle lead, pushing him back onto the bed, pressing his weight against Shiro’s.  Fingers laced together, legs twined, lips sealed, they fell together.

Shiro had managed a lot of firsts in his life.  First to graduate the Garrison with so many honors; first to pilot a ship past the Kuiper belt; first human to make contact with extraterrestrial life.

But this first was, by far, his favorite.

He cried out as they moved together, the intimacy of it almost too much to bear, drawing Keith in closer, burying his face in his neck.  Keith coaxed him out for tender kisses, which Shiro returned with a desperation.  He was here.  Keith was here.  They were here together, Keith real under Shiro’s fingers, their breath mingling, the taste of desperation and the smell of each other heavy in the air.

And he cried out again, vision and mind white, as they finished, Keith groaning above him.  He cried out Keith’s name as Keith whispered his.

An anchor, Coran had said.  You need an anchor, or several.  Something that can remind you where you are, what’s real.  Something you can hold onto to keep from losing yourself.

Shiro had found his.

—

And that night, he dreamed.

He dreamed of tinted metal, red and yellow and blue and green and black and chrome, gleaming under stars and suns.  He dreamed of smiling faces, the six of them linking arms and laughing as Coran took the Altean equivalent of a photo.  He dreamed of cinnamon-scented orchards of citrus, orange and green and silver.

He still dreamed of blue sky, but instead of it carrying with it despair that he would never see it again, it glowed with the soft light of hope.

But then the sky cracked, and darkness broke through, swamping buildings and lakes and trees and figures in waves of inky blackness.  He struggled forward, gathering the Paladins and pushing them to safety, but then Hunk twisted and tripped—

A hand grabbed his arm, and he yanked backwards, eyes flying open, thrashing for a moment as he oriented himself.  Instinct screamed at him to reach out and grab his attacker, and this time—

This time, Shiro was ready.

He let the instinct scream, let it wash over him, but he knew it by now, knew it intimately.  As intimately as he now knew the associations he had worked to build into that sensation.

Attack.   _Why?_ came the next word, immediately.

Danger.   _Are you awake?_ his mind supplied, just as quick.

Intruder.   _Keith._

And while it didn’t completely settle his racing thoughts, it paralyzed his reflexive violence long enough for him to orient himself.

The first sight that met his eyes was Keith’s face hovering over his, eyes dark with concern.  A hand lifted to press against Shiro’s forehead, then cup his cheek, trailing down his bare shoulder.  Shiro closed his eyes, grounding himself with the sensation, and Keith pressed his hand against Shiro’s chest.

“You with me?” came the voice, hoarser than usual with sleep and full of concern.

“Yeah.”  Shiro felt the breath of the reply on his lips.

The hand continued to run over his bare skin, and Shiro forced himself to pay attention to it, unable to focus on anything else without knowing where it would go next.  Stomach, then cheek again, up his side, across his hips…

And as his heartbeat stilled, he opened his eyes again.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Keith offered him a smile, sleepy against a backdrop of mussed hair, and lowered himself again, elbows bending to leave him level with Shiro’s shoulder.  He tucked his head into it.

And when he slept, he dreamed no more.


End file.
